The Show Must Go On
by MysticStoryteller
Summary: Brothers, one born from a night of passion, the other born from a lifetime of love, meet in the Opera Populare. But everything goes awry when an angel, claiming to be the Angel of Music, arrives and wreeks havoc on the opera house.
1. Lingering Presence

**Title:** The Show Must Go On

**Chapter: **I. Lingering Presence

**Fandom:** The Phantom of the Opera

**Author**: MysticStoryteller

**Summary:**Brothers, one born from a night of passion, the other born from a lifetime of love, meet in the Opera Populare. They find each other like their parents did, one working for the opera, the other haunting it. They both fall for an alluring, sweet ballerina. But everything goes awry when an angel, claiming to be the Angel of Music, arrives and wreaks havoc on the opera house. Will the brothers be able to save the Opera Populare, along with the life of the woman they love?

**Rating: **T for dark themes, violence and cursing

**Pairings:** Silas//Christian, slight Erik/Angel, implied Erik/Christine/Roaul

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the songs that appear

**A/N: **Hey everybody! This is my new Phantom of the Opera fan fiction. I really think this is my forte, and I really love the dark, grim feel to it. I made a trailer for this, if you'd like to see it, you can find it on my profile page. So, this idea came pretty much with one idea: what if the Angel of Music, was actually a real angel that deceived him into creating chaos? And then, the rest of it just fell into place. Well, enjoy!

--

**The Show Must Go On**

Chapter I:

_Lingering Presence _

--

"_The Phantom of the Opera is now, your master mind!"_

The clear, sweet voice ran out, echoing through the theatre. A figure, crouching in the shadows cocked its head, listening to the voice. He'd heard it so many times, but never seen its owner. He longed to sing like that.

Though, he longed to sing even one note well. As it was…there weren't many notes he could actually hit. No, his true talent lay in the violin.

The beautiful voice frightened him, but it was so alluring; one could not turn away from it easily.

He could not, would not get away from it; it made him wonder what his mother's voice had sounded like, as most describe her singing like a lark: sweet and heartbreaking, or a siren: mesmerizing.

"Damned voice!" cried Mr. Adele, the Opera Populare's newest owner. The figure jumped slightly at the noise. Below him, the ballerinas were aflutter, huddling together like a heard of sheep and whispering to each other, their eyes flitting about the ceiling, trying to find the source of the voice, which had been present for nearly two weeks. He stood up on the rafters and hopped from wooden rafter, to wooden rafter. He was nimble, to say the least.

But of course, this was his life.

Although, it had not always been.

It had been his father's once. But what did that matter? The young man continued, through the shadows that used to frighten him so- now they were his protection. It saddened him often that this was his only choice now. He was a monster and could not risk allowing himself in public.

His life, and the life of his father, his mother and many others, was defined by a mask.

It was a simple one, very sleek and beautiful. But frightening, too. It was white, like bone, and covered the right eye from the forehead to the ear. How strange it was that this mask had decided his past and future. It had engulfed his entire life and would not release him from its grasp.

It was almost as if his father's soul had been placed in that mask and it doomed whoever wore it to either don the mask and become the monster or die.

All one had to do was look at the long line of successors, after his father, to see the pain and havoc it wreaked: Meg Giry, who left it in the keeping of her mother, who kept it on her night table. After that, it was promptly stolen by a group of young ballerinas who wanted to see if it was real.

From there, it was taken into the hands of a flirtatious salesman who simply wooed the ballerinas into letting him have it. He placed the mask in his store window, to poke fun at the tale that became legend and to bring uproar in sales and business. It was there for two days, until he was found dead one morning, killed before he could close up shop.

Promptly, it was given back to the managers of the Opera Populare, who died within the next two weeks (one from old age, the other from cholera and both within a week of each other). The new manager, a man with a handlebar mustache and a bit of a protruding stomach, had kept the mask for himself.

From there, the young man had managed to steal it for himself considering it was his only keepsake of his father.

And now he was the Phantom, though he knew he didn't have the voice or the heart for it. He wished he did, but tried to make do with the life he had been given.

The truth was he longed to be on the stage and to be greeted with a warm standing ovation. Above all, he wished to have the voice of an angel, in which people would be taken to other worlds, to be moved, to find hope once more, all in the sound of his voice.

He retreated back into the darkness as the rehearsals continued.

&.&.&.&.&.&.

The water around the boat sloshed quietly as the young man rowed himself slowly to his home. He didn't like living underground and found it, at times, rather unnerving. But still, when he reached the shore, he felt as though his mother's soul was watching him, guarding him.

He surveyed the little place he called home. It wasn't much, but he loved it anyway. It helped him remember who he was, and where he came from, even though it was a little unsettling.

The candles rose from the water, like wraiths of dead souls, and lit themselves when he snapped his fingers. One had to admit, his father was a genius, no matter how insane he had become.

Mooring the boat, he stepped out. His eyes landed on the violin that he loved so much. His sweet, sweet violin- it was, apart from Miss Giry, his only friend and confidant. He strode over to it and picked it up. Sitting down, he began to play a melody, a lullaby, one he had always known, but never remembered from what. There were words, but he never knew them. So, he had made his own.

_Child of the wilderness  
Born into emptiness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to find your way in darkness_

__

Who will be there for you?  
Comfort and care for you?  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to be your one companion

__

Never dreamed out in the world  
There are arms to hold you  
You've always known your heart was on its own  


_  
So laugh in your loneliness  
Child of the wilderness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn how to love life that is lived alone_

__

Learn to be lonely  
Life can be lived; life can be loved alone…

He trailed off, thinking of when he first wrote the lyrics. He was twelve, still dealing with the loss of his father who had been emotionally distant until his death, when the young man was only six. Over the years, the song practically wrote itself through his hands.

"Bravo!" A clapping awoke him from his thoughts as he turned to see his visitor.

"Hello Miss Giry," he said politely, like a young child might to an elder. She was beautiful, even though she was much older than him. In her mid-thirties, she seemed as youthful as ever. Though she could never be the prima ballerina again, she was a fair coach and an understanding teacher.

"Good day, Silas," she nodded her head and surveyed the lair, as she stepped of her little boat and onto the ground.

"How is Mr. Adele?"

She smiled a little; she disliked Mr. Adele and his constant anger issues, as did Silas. "Ah, he is as red-faced as ever. Especially since I gave him the new script you wrote. He doesn't like the changes."

Silas laughed a bit. "What doesn't he like?"

"The new ending. He demands it be re-written."

He sighed, smirking a little. "He just cannot be pleased, can he? Why doesn't he see that there is no happy ending? The lovers simply can't end up together. It just doesn't make sense that way."

It always surprised him how comfortable Meg was here. Even then, she was inspecting things. She stopped at the bust his father had made, the one with the black scarf tied around one half of its face. She traced the line from his forehead down to his chin absentmindedly.

"I agree thoroughly."

"Can your mother try and calm him?"

She nodded a bit and sat down. "I'll ask her."

He grinned a bit as he tore a loose hair from his bow. "How long do you think he'll last?"

"With or without your help?" she met his eyes and both glinted with a sense of mockery and mischievousness.

He chuckled. "Without. I'm not that awful, am I?"

"Well, you could do without singing and frightening the cast and crew. But, it must please you that Mr. Adele is wrought up about it."

Silas froze. "The voice? That's not me."

"If its not you then…?" she trailed off.

"Oh, I'm sure its nothing. Maybe just a bored school boy…if not, maybe we have an angel of music on our hands," he said jokingly, smiling good-naturedly.

He did not know how right he was.

- -

_Coming next week…_

The torture went on until Mr. Adele could stand it no more. "Thank you, Mr. Gray. Next!"

"Your name, sir?" Silas heard Madame Giry ask. The Madame was his eyes and ears in many cases and he could not have been more thankful for the former ballet instructor.

The voice that answered was rich, smooth and had a sense of youth to it- as though the speaker was only in his late teens. "Christian Daae."

Silas froze. Daae? Daae. That was his mother's maiden name. There were no other Daaes in France, he was almost sure of that. Could if be that he had a brother? He didn't want to believe it but, he took a chance and peeked over the balcony of the box.


	2. The Auditions

**Title:** The Show Must Go On

**Chapter: **II. The Auditions

**Fandom:** The Phantom of the Opera

**Author**: MysticStoryteller

**Summary:**Brothers, one born from a night of passion, the other born from a lifetime of love, meet in the Opera Populare. They find each other like their parents did, one working for the opera, the other haunting it. They both fall for an alluring, sweet ballerina. But everything goes awry when an angel, claiming to be the Angel of Music, arrives and wreaks havoc on the opera house. Will the brothers be able to save the Opera Populare, along with the life of the woman they love?

**Rating: **T for dark themes, violence and cursing

**Pairings:** Silas/Amorette/Christian, slight Erik/Angel, implied Erik/Christine/Roaul

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the songs that appear

--

**The Show Must Go On**

Chapter II:

The Auditions

--

_The dream came, as it often did. _

_He was there with his back to Silas. But, no matter how loud he yelled, no matter what he did, his father would never hear him, he would never see him._

_Instead, he was intent on the glowing figure surrounded by light before him, watching it with awe. It looked how he always imagined his mother: beautiful, with dark hair and the face and voice of an angel. Her arms were outstretched toward him._

"_Christine…" he sang in a murmur. _

"_Come to me, Erik," she said, luring him with her beauty. "I miss you. I am your angel of music!"_

"_My angel of music…" he repeated, as though he relished the very words, much less the very idea._

_Silas reached out to him, trying to keep his father for only a moment more, just to hold on to him, to know him, if only for a moment. "Father…no…"_

_But, as always, his father would enter the embrace of his mother, the angel. However, this time, something else happened. As she held him, she met the eyes of Silas. And for a moment, for a brief moment, her beauty seemed to falter for a moment and she was like a wilting flower: dead, cold and deteriorating._

And then he awoke.

He sighed, rubbing his sweaty forehead. His eyes searched around the lair from where he slept: the bed his mother slept in long ago. It was a large, shell-shaped bed with draw-string curtain that surrounded the bed with a circular wall of black lace.

Sitting up, he rested his head against the stone wall. His eyes wandered over to the broken mirrors which his father had smashed so long ago. He studied himself. He did not consider himself particularly handsome, but Meg had said once that he had a 'dark charm' about him, but all he saw was the dark; there was no charm in his chiseled features. If he had to pick his best features, he would have chosen his frozen blue eyes and his wicked grin. His hair was a light, dirty brown, much unlike both his parents.

It seemed clear that sleep was evasive as ever like a dancing ballerina that pranced away no matter how hard he tried to catch it. So, he stood up and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Living in underground seemed, at first, such a blind thing. But he had learned several ways to tell if the sun had risen or set. He had the tenants upstairs to thank for that, since often times, their movements and voices could be heard faintly from his place below.

Judging by the noise now, it was about six a.m. and the sun was only just beginning to peer shyly over the French skyline. He thought he might as well rise early, because the auditions for the play were beginning at 7:30 sharp and he didn't want to miss them. Not only would some be amusing, but, as this was his play, he would, essentially, choose his cast. They did, of course, have their own paid regular cast but Silas insisted on letting fresh faces into the Opera House as actors, dancers and even musicians.

Perhaps, Silas wondered, if he was only trying to give a chance to those who never believed they would receive it. He would never get his chance to live in the stage light, but it wouldn't stop him from helping others acquire it.

He began his morning, as he often did when he had theatre business (instead of just a leisurely stroll to survey the theatre from above). He washed his face with some water from the stone basin which he had acquired from some deceased actor or someone to that affect.

When finished with that, he faced the mannequin which wore his father's best suit: a dark suit with a crimson vest, black silk neck rag, black gloves and long shadowy cloak. He donned it ceremoniously, as though it was like going to a funeral.

Lastly, he picked up the mask which had brought him so much turmoil and paced it over the right side of his face.

He was no longer Silas, son of Erik. He was now the Phantom of the Opera.

&.&.&.&.&.&.

"Thank you, Miss Elson. Don't call us, we'll call you."

Silas sat up in box five, another haunt of his father's. He was reclined with his arms crossed. So far, the talent was grim and he approved of none except for two or three out of fifty in the first two hours.

"Next…a Mr.…David Grey. Mr. Grey, please do come forward."

A rather short, shy man came forward and began to play his bass (which was much taller than he) with shaking fingers.

The torture went on until Mr. Adele could stand it no more. "Thank you, Mr. Grey. Next!"

"Your name, sir?" Silas heard Madame Giry ask. The Madame was his eyes and ears in many cases and he could not have been more thankful for the former ballet instructor.

The voice that answered was rich, smooth and had a sense of youth to it- as though the speaker was only in his late teens. "Christian Daae."

Silas froze. Daae? Daae. That was his mother's maiden name. There were no other Daaes in France, he was almost sure of that. Could if be that he had a brother? He didn't want to believe it but, he took a chance and peeked over the balcony of the box.

His eyes were met with a handsome young man, perhaps around his own age. He had a sweet smile, one which he recognized from his mother. He seemed a bit awkward, like a newborn doe that still wasn't comfortable in its new world. In his hand, he held a violin.

Silas's heart instantly sank. The only thing he was good at was playing the violin and suddenly his kid brother shows up and tries to outdo him. What if he really was better than Silas?

He sat back and listened as Christian began to play. He was decent, that was for sure. But, he sensed that it was not his strong point. Still, he would need to become a part of the orchestra- he was the best they'd heard yet.

Mr. Adele clapped. "Very good, Mr. Daae. You are hired…" Madame Giry sent him a look. "Until further notice."

"Tell me," Mr. Adele continued. "Are you related to the late Christine Daae, the famous opera singer? And her father, the world renowned violinist?"

"I am, sir. She was my mother."

So it was true. How odd, he thought and here, he believed he was alone in the world. But, the idea still seemed alien to him that he had a living relation. But, he would not get too comfortable with this idea. Christian was merely a new face and would, most likely, end up not staying for very long, so no there would be need for introductions.

But Silas would watch Christian closely. Perhaps he knew something about the voice? Silas would learn all he needed to from Christian and find out what he was hiding under his coat, what secrets lay close to his breast.

"Next?"

The hours passed slowly and a few more promising talents were found. Several actors were told to come back the next day for an impromptu call-back for a supporting role in the play. One or two decent ballerinas were found and another bass player, who was, thankfully, taller than his instrument.

"Ms. Amorette Everswick?"

A young, pretty thing appeared on stage. Her hair was the color of golden wheat and her beauty was so young, so innocent. When she danced, she proved to be highly skilled and better than most of the ballerinas currently working for the opera house, which really said something, considering she had no formal training.

As the manager and Madame Giry asked her several questions and asked her to go home and pack her things so that she could come and take up residence there, Silas's eyes wandered over to the seats filled up with auditioners. Christian was among them. What was that in his eye? A glint of hope? A passing fancy? Or was it perhaps the same sort of gleam that Silas had seen in his own father's eyes not so long ago: the look of never having lived until now.

Although he did not realize it, the same look was in his own eyes. The same look that led his father to his death.


End file.
